


Mercy

by arlathahn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Minor Character Death, Minor spoilers for A Dance with Dragons, Mostly book canon with a sprinkle of television references, Post-Canon, in which Jaime Lannister comes to terms with his past and embraces his future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 04:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13516698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arlathahn/pseuds/arlathahn
Summary: Jaime knows the truth is much clearer and much simpler than whatever piece of well-rounded garbage he tells himself to get through the day. Just like he knows, surer than he’s known anything in his godforsaken life, it’s not just a debt. It’s never been about restitution for his own sins, and it’s not about hers, either, though it is about her at heart.The truth is, there’s one thing left Jaime Lannister can believe in, and it has nothing to do with himself at all.





	Mercy

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: holy shit, I love Jaime Lannister. 
> 
> This one goes out to Zinab, who is a lovely human being and also my Jaime/Brienne soul mate. Meeting you has been a gift, honestly, and I'm a happier person for knowing you. 
> 
> Title is in part inspired by _The Quality of Mercy_ by Max Richter, which is a beautiful piece of music I highly recommend listening to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **Jaime Lannister** : For all the good it's done her. How did you come into Lady Stark's service? There's something we can talk about.
> 
> **Brienne of Tarth** : Not your concern, Kingslayer.
> 
> **Jaime Lannister** : It had to be recently. You weren't with her at Winterfell.
> 
> **Brienne of Tarth** : How would you know?
> 
> **Jaime Lannister** : Because I visited Winterfell. I would have noticed your dour head smacking into the archways.
> 
> - _Game of Thrones_ S3E2: Dark Wings, Dark Words

* * *

 

The thing is, Jaime Lannister always thought himself above the rules.

It was not mere arrogance, Jaime thinks, and it was not that he thought common law beneath him—quite the contrary, in fact. He was bound, the way all men are, to a higher decree than he could fully understand in his youth, and he possessed the kind of innate talent for knightly duties that promised greatness or, at least, success. It was more a philosopher's rebuttal then, a confidence that bellied his father's and tortured his tutors; a question for every circumstance, every what-if, a question for the sake of question itself: a reason, a purpose, a need to know _why_.

He respected rules, obeyed them often, but there was always an exception, no? That's what wisdom said, there was always an exception—and a reason for that exception.

The thought of what it all meant was always there, lingering in his mind's shadow. He yearned to comprehend the heart of the issue, to understand that which was deeper, more encompassing than a simple recitation of vows. Words could merely hint at ethics, so the difficulty was the practicality of putting word to action. Rules and laws were but one half of the battle, Jaime knew. To uphold the holiest of vows, one needed to consider the union of both. After all, it was not just a question of obedience to the law, but of upholding its morality first and foremost, in word _and_ deed.

Thus the questions were born.

Did honor not also dictate that you should do what is difficult despite the rules? Did an oath not also bind you beyond that which was written in ink? Did heart not come before deed, did life not abject death, did a wrong ever make a right?

It was always a far off thing, these notions. Breath was not breathed into them until the day Aerys decided to rape his wife while Jaime guarded his rooms. It was always a far off thing until his fellow Kingsguard looked Jaime in the eye and said, “Not from him.” It was always a far off thing until he had to bury the thought deep down, so deep he was nearly uncaring and it was only Cersei, sweet Cersei who could glimpse the broken boy underneath.

It was always a far off thing until he questioned every vow he ever took, until ignorance became truth and belief became ash. The fateful day Aerys Targaryen took his last breath was the same day Jaime Lannister found the answers he craved, the day he finally,  _finally_ understood the truth of knights and kings, of realms and rulers. And if, in the end, it turned out to be less an answer and more a mantra, an explanation, an excuse to cower and hide behind, then no one, not even his beloved twin would ever know. He would not fall, like so many men before him, to the whims and wishes of the public. Perhaps it was the Lannister blood flowing through his veins, perhaps it was his father’s steadfastness that made him too proud to admit otherwise. Or maybe it was pure selfishness, instead. Maybe Jaime Lannister was never the knight he dreamt he could be, or maybe there were no true knights at all.

Still, there was a certain irony to it all. Fate, it seemed, was always destined to intertwine Jaime to the very people he saved, just not the way he once imagined it would. For in the end every misdeed, every vile revulsion Jaime Lannister was compelled to allow without question all came down to his own fucked up delivery of justice, and the world at large who judged him for it.

His musings were nothing more than a youthful attempt at knowledge, once. They were little more than hypothetical nothings, vague dreams of greatness, of splendor, of  _more_. He would have believed in his own redemption, once. He would have believed in just about anything, given the chance, but his own descent into apathy was not the worst of it all.

No, the worst part was given the chance, he wouldn't choose differently.

The worst part is, he _can't_.

 

* * *

 

Jaime Lannister once thought himself above the rules, but it was only half true.

Jaime Lannister wasn't above the rules. Jaime Lannister _was_ the rule.

 

* * *

 

He finds her near Pennytree. Or perhaps it would be more accurate to say she finds him.

His men alert him to her presence and there she is: Brienne of Tarth, in the flesh. He never expected to see her again, here of all places and times. She looks worse for wear—well, worse than usual: a nasty wound along her cheek has left the flesh mangled raw, tearing her face in two. Jaime hides a grimace as he takes the rest of her in, finds more gashes and cuts adorn her face and hands, and that's just the skin on display.

More than that, she looks skittish and nervous in way that's at odds with her usual broad self. If Jaime didn’t know better, he’d call the look in her blue eyes fear.

“My lady,” he says with a dip of his head.

“Ser Jaime,” she replies, curt as ever.

He wants to make some sort of gesture, a clasp of hands, an embrace of some sort, but he doesn't know the protocol for this sort of reunion and Brienne keeps sneaking looks at Jaime like she hasn’t the faintest idea either. She won’t look him in the eye for more than a breath or two, and it’s not  _unusual_ in the strictest sense of the word, but something about her behavior makes his skin itch, and not in a pleasant way.

“What brings you this far west?” he asks, looking for neutral ground. A vague opener, but the curiosity behind the inquiry is genuine.

Jaime doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it’s not for Brienne to cast a glance behind her, a panicked look in her eye and a lump in her throat. Her mouth opens to speak, then closes again with a sharp backwards glance as though they might be overheard. North, always north. This is the same woman who loosed a boulder with her bare hands, who fought the Kingslayer without an ounce of fear. This is the woman who spilled secrets from his lips, who convinced him of life when he had none. This is the same woman, but also not the same at all: the woman in front of him is not one he’s ever met and it’s worrisome, unsettling.

He takes a step forward.

“What is it?” he asks, voice low.

Brienne looks at the ground beneath her feet, hands fidgeting with the sword at her hip _._ Oathkeeper. It makes him inordinately pleased to know she yet wears it. Under different circumstances, he might make a joke, something charming and only vaguely degrading, but now nothing even remotely clever enters his thoughts. Now Jaime’s only wish is that the owner of such a proud sword would look as confident as the magnificent lion pommel attached to it. Where once she looked so young and stubborn, so pure and naïve, now Brienne of Tarth appears little more than broken, just  broken.

Finally, she looks to him. There’s something lurking in those sapphire eyes, something that almost resembles a plea, but that would be ridiculous, wouldn’t it? What could Brienne of Tarth possibly need from him, what comfort would she find from one such as he?

“I’ve found Sansa Stark.”

Her voice is firm, but tired and Jaime is no fool. There is more at stake here than Sansa Stark, and Brienne’s tempered silence speaks more than any of her words combined. A time not so long ago the omission between said and unsaid would prickle his pride and intelligence, an insult, and he’d offer some smart retort. It’s still true he craves honesty, still true he doesn’t enjoy dancing circles for the sake of propriety or politics, but his perception of the person on the receiving end has changed and, Jaime finds, it makes all the difference.

He holds his tongue.

At Jaime's abnormal silence more words come spilling out, faster with each passing breath. Brienne begs him to come with haste, speaking of Sansa, of the Hound, of his camp not more than a day’s ride.

“Come alone,” she says, “lest he kill her.”

It’s a strange moment for self-reflection, even stranger to think of his sister here and now, but it’s warranted, perhaps, given the situation. There’s a strange sense of familiarity in Brienne’s request, so similar to one he heard not long ago in a scroll from King’s Landing, a scroll filled with the succinct cursive penmanship that could only belong to his twin.

The words are almost entirely different: one an elongated love confession, a desperate most passionate plea, the other a short, sweet declaration of fact, a most holy request. They’re not at all similar save for an undercurrent of desperation in each, a force of emotion so genuine it would most certainly befall a wiser,  more foolish man. What surprises Jaime, then, are not the differences, but the similarities. There’s a measure of genuine emotion from both women, but also an element of deception and Jaime is unsure which causes more disbelief, and from whom.

 _I need you,_ Brienne doesn’t say and Jaime wonders if that is the lie or the truth.

Jaime thinks of Cersei, rotting in a cell. He looks at Brienne, half her face cast in shadow.

He follows without question.

 

* * *

  

After, she approaches him.

Approaches and thrusts Oathkeeper at him, voice quivering and body shaking. “I don't know how to—”

There’s water clinging to her lashes, but whether the moisture is caused by tears or the perpetual gloom of  this place is harder to discern. Jaime suspects the former.

“I don't deserve this.” Her hand falls, limp and useless back to her side.

Jaime has no idea what’s on the other side of this road, has no idea what she's vaguely referencing, but none of that matters. What matters are her eyes refusing to meet his, what matters are her shoulders slumped in defeat. What matters is her returning a gift that was never meant to belong in anyone’s hand but hers, what matters is her _giving up._

What matters is how familiar the sight is, even after all these  years.

Jaime clutches her hand, stands as close as he dares, and commands her to lead him where he needs to go. He'll fight every damn bandit between here and King's Landing if he has to, sword hand be damned if it means erasing that look on her face. Her integrity means more to him than his own long lost quest for honor and it should be a terrifying conclusion. It should be unsettling, or vexing, or otherwise untoward. But when Jaime looks at Brienne, all he sees is his fifteen year old self staring back at him. All he sees is a mirror image of himself desperate for answers, for a reprieve, for a purpose, for anything,  _anyone_ to understand.

Jaime remembers the moment Ned Stark found him in the throne room, and he knows he doesn't have much time.

"Brienne," he says, edging closer. He reaches out just enough to brush his fingers over hers on Oathkeeper's hilt. "I know you."

It's not enough. He knows it's not enough to convey it all, it’s not even close to saying what he truly wishes to say. _I know,_ he thinks. _I've been there, you aren't me, you are your own person, I won't condemn you like everyone else, you're better than them, you've always been better than them._

His fingers give a gentle squeeze where they're entwined with hers, and he smiles a sad twist of lips as those blue eyes break.

Brienne looks at him, eyes glassy and mouth quivering and it’s like her entire soul is laid bare, a private event and he has the only ticket. Except this isn’t the time or place for such unveiled truths, and Jaime Lannister is the last person in Westeros who deserves to see her heart on display. But that’s just it, isn’t it? There isn’t another place, and there isn’t another person. There’s just Brienne and there’s just  Jaime.

There’s just this.

They’re standing in the sleet-slick rain, hands clasped and eyes held, just staring, and there’s a moment. An absurd moment where Jaime wants to lean in for absolutely no reason at all. He wants to comfort in the only way he knows how, the only way he knows to really  _give._ But she’s a maid, a knight, she’s the only real, good person left in the entirety of Westeros, Jaime is convinced, so he catches himself just in time. He catches himself before he loses that part that has only just been found, a part that she herself found for him, and it’s _good_. It’s good.

Jaime blinks then backs away, resolutely doesn’t think about the fact that this doesn’t feel good or right or anything else the knights always say because they’re duty-bound to a life of repression. None of this feels like  a victory the way he thinks it should, none of this answers any of those nagging questions that have lingered for a decade and a half. No, this feels like another one of those forbidden what-ifs he used to ponder when he was younger, except this time  it’s worse. This time he’s the _what_ and Brienne is the _if_ , this time it’s more real than anything from his past because she’s here, standing right in front of him: his very own living, breathing question mark. This woman with despair in her eyes and regret on her lips makes him ask a whole new set of questions and the sheer possibility in those too-blue eyes is too tantalizing to ignore.

It makes him wonder. It makes him _want_.

“Let’s go save her,” Jaime says instead, and he isn’t just referring to Sansa Stark.

Thus begins the quest to save Brienne of Tarth.

 

* * *

  

The thing about traveling is one always has time to _think_.

Jaime watches Brienne's strong, large form atop her mount, watches the way her shoulders move as she rides gracefully through the fog. He watches how she favors her left side despite keeping up appearances she's in perfectly good health. He watches her eyes when they ride side by side, those blue eyes betraying her nerves, her raw fear at whatever monster lurks at the crest of these hills.

Jaime watches and he wonders, against his better judgment, if a different expression could exist there instead. He wonders if he could distract Brienne from that which ails her, wonders if their dalliance could ever be more than fleeting, wonders if it would help or hurt, soothe or ache.

This isn't the time or place, Jaime knows, but it doesn't stop the question.

It never does.

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Jaime Lannister is well acquainted with hard truths.

He’s well acquainted with their existence, just as he’s well versed in ignoring their incessant pleas of escape. He knows, and he deals. Or at least, he dealt.

Maybe it was fate that brought Brienne of Tarth his way, maybe it was the gods come to deliver their own sense of justice, an outlet for his sins. Or maybe her presence wasn’t the doing of anyone or anything. Maybe it was sheer damn luck, who the hell knows.

Either way, what they say about Lannister debts is true. That’s what Jaime tells  himself when he takes on another holy vow, his last. That’s what he tells himself when he grips Brienne’s hand and urges her to run. That’s what he tells himself when he barters his life for hers, when he blocks the blade that would end her life with his golden hand, unsure if it would withstand the weight. That’s what he tells himself when he finds her weeping over Catelyn Stark’s undead corpse in the aftermath, that’s what he says when she cries out, a deafening scream of anguish and pain.

But the thing is, Jaime knows better. He knows the truth is much clearer and much simpler than whatever piece of well-rounded garbage he tells himself to get through the day. Just like he knows, surer than he’s known anything in his godforsaken life, it’s not just a debt. It’s never been about restitution for  his own sins, and it’s not about hers, either, though it is about her at heart.

The truth is, there’s one thing left Jaime Lannister can believe in, and it has nothing to do with himself at all.

The irony is, it never was.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it came down to this:

Good men can follow honor for honor's sake, but that doesn't make it right. And bad men can do good deeds but still have shit for honor.

Too bad for Jaime, then, that he was found the latter.

 

* * *

 

After, he holds her.

He holds her over Lady Stoneheart’s corpse, holds her as she weeps. He has questions, of course he does, but for the second time in his miserable life Jaime Lannister doesn't say a single word. For a second time he humbles himself to sit in the bitter cold, to listen to the wind howl and the sleet pour and wait.

He builds a fire some hours later then he’s back, cold and worn but with open arms. He doesn’t speak, hardly makes a movement at all: just a slight curve of his arm and she returns, nestled beside his shoulder. Taller, though. Always taller.

She speaks once and only once, a whisper of a word nearly lost to the storm outside.

“Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The thing is, Jaime Lannister didn’t give much thought to what could have gone differently.

In truth, he rarely allows time for such pursuits. The past is the past, after all. What additional meaning is attained by stewing over that which has already occurred? Life is an ever-spinning wheel, never resting for anyone or anything, whether it be peasant or king or something in between. There’s no apologizing for it, not really, just like there's no choice but to go forward. These are the things Jaime told himself, in the aftermath.

But that’s not to say he didn’t care. That’s not to say at all.

He cared what the White Book said about him, the same way he cared what it didn’t. He cared when the whispers started, the ones his father told him to ignore. He cared when he pretended otherwise, he cared even when he buried the thing so deep it took a year in chains and a naïve knight to resurrect the feeling. He cared the day it happened, cared enough to put an end to it the only way time allowed, the same way he cared when Ned Stark found him and gave him the look that would later become the name.

Jaime never put much thought toward what could have been, but part of him wishes he would have, now.

He wishes because if he would have, he might have the words to articulate that he knows precisely what's going through that thick head of hers since it once went through his. Because if he would have, he might be able to console her the way he once wished someone might console him.

Jaime Lannister has never been a particularly kind man. He's never been particularly patient or polite. He's never been known for his bedside manner or anything resembling courtesy. It's not his way, or so the people assumed, and he's never much bothered to correct the image they made for him.

Now though, he wishes he would have.

Now though, he doesn't much like who that boy grew up to be.

 

* * *

 

“We need to change your bandages.”

“I’m fine.”

“ _Brienne_.”

She sighs, a noise of defeat.

Perhaps if Jaime were a better man, a kinder man, he would show more tact, or more grace. Perhaps he would lure her into conversation with subtle words, charming words, words to spill her heart’s secrets the way she once did his. Brienne of Tarth sits wet and cold, looking utterly defeated in every way, but even so it’s not a singular thing. It’s like she’s lost the war, not the battle and Jaime, for all his intimate knowledge of women   and fighting, is just now realizing he doesn’t know much about this type of woman or comfort at all.

It’s a bit unnerving, if he’s honest.

“Where will you go?” he asks, reaching for fresh cloth.

Brienne is silent as Jaime sits close to undress the wound, and for a moment he thinks she’s going to go back to being stubborn and mulish, shutting him out completely.

“North.” She says it firmly, not a glimpse of the broken girl from earlier in sight.

Jaime nods. It makes sense, and it’s the logical choice. He unwraps the old dressing, Brienne hissing as the flesh gives way to blood and other fluids, stretching uncomfortably before detaching in a disgusting heap on the ground. Jaime spends an inordinate amount of time cleaning the raw flesh of her cheek as gently as he can without causing undue pain, intent on his work. All is quiet, peaceful almost, save the bodies lit on a pyre nearby and for a moment it’s like they can forget the past few hours even happened, except that the evidence is crackling and sputtering nearby and the memory of Brienne crying in his arms is too fresh, too real to be anything out of a dream.

“I could do this myself.”

Her voice is back to its usual timbre: short and direct and brokering no argument. Jaime smiles.

“I know,” he replies, his own voice reflecting a hint of its usual mirth.

More silence. More cleaning.

Brienne flinches again when the water hits too close to her mouth, reflex pushing her away from his remaining good hand, clumsy as ever.

“Apologies,” he says, self-depreciation leaking into his tone. He holds up his right arm, a vague wave of placation. “I may have some swordplay left, but everything else is somewhat lacking grace, I’m  afraid.”

Brienne stares at him for one heartbeat, then two. Jaime can’t quite discern the expressions warring on her face. It’s the same mixture of desperation and fear as earlier, but their enemy lay in a burning pile of rubble  not twenty feet away, so what is there left to  fear?

“No, it—it’s fine.”

Jaime stares back, perplexed. Watches as a red flush crawls its way along Brienne’s other cheek, all the way to her nose. Then it occurs to him: the corpse’s proximity, or  his?

He grins. Brienne studies the ground.

“ _Brienne?_ ” he asks, and he’s never been so eager to tease. “Nervous?”

Brienne scoffs, as though the idea is utterly apprehensible. Jaime is not entirely sure he disagrees, but what he thinks is beside the point. What is far more interesting is what _she_ thinks.

“No.” She meets his eye in a fit of bravery.  Authoritative as ever, his Brienne of Tarth.

“Of course,” he says, the picture of innocence. “My mistake.”

He smirks.

Brienne clears her throat.

“I would never ask you to—betray your own house,” she says some minutes later, humor entirely forgotten. Her voice cracks the slightest bit, betraying her nerves. “But should the opportunity present itself, know that there will always be a place for you. Up north.”

For a moment, Jaime is stunned into silence, his left hand hovering awkwardly near her face. The offer is, on the surface, innocent as ever, especially from Brienne. On the other hand, it almost sounds as though she’s implying something much greater than mere houses and banners. An alliance, yes, but not one born from sigils or names.

“I’m not so sure the entirety of the north would agree with such a generous offer,” he says at length, grateful to be otherwise occupied with other parts of her face. It distracts from spewing more truth into those too-blue eyes.

He feels rather than sees Brienne look down at her hands. “I know.”

It’s quiet again after that, but it’s a different quiet than earlier, not nearly as comfortable. He’s said the wrong thing, he knows he has and _gods_ , will he ever stop fucking up. Every time.

Maybe if he were born in a different land, to a different father. Maybe if he weren’t the Kingslayer, if he  weren’t a knight. Maybe if he were a braver, more honest man. Maybe then he would follow her without question. Maybe then he would never let her out of his sight.

Or maybe he looks at her now in this land, in this time and craves her just the same. Maybe no matter the circumstance, that rebellious part of himself he always admonished as terrible was actually the only good thing in his life telling him right from wrong. Maybe it's not such a terrible thing, to want.

If only he could.

“However,” he says, tone deceptively light, “if I happen to find myself in those wintery depths, I’ll look for your dour head smacking into the doorways.”

He doesn’t have to see her face to know she smiles.

He wants.

 

* * *

 

It’s not as though it’s a new conclusion. It's not and yet it is. A paradox, but far from the first in his mind.

More than that, it's bloody terrifying _._

He'd be a liar if he claimed the idea had never born fruit before, and no matter how many lies he's told himself over the years, Jaime knows this one truth plain as day. Still, his own desires have always been somewhat  more shortsighted, somewhat dimmer than the blue giant beside him. The innate beauty of her was more evident to him than most, perhaps, thanks in large part to having an under-appreciated dwarf for a brother but even so, Jaime cast her whims and wishes aside as easily as the next ignorant bastard. He was so fixated on loosing her of the naïve ideals she clung to, so set on correcting her for no fathomable reason other than it _bothered_ him that she would judge him like all the rest. She, who was the epitome of knightly, wholesome goodness.

Which is also why it might take the rest of his life to convince her of his very real, very physical  desire. But to his own surprise, Jaime doesn’t feel irritation at the decidedly difficult task. It isn’t patience or impatience, frustration or glee, but something else entirely. Something that bristles at the challenge, all want and need, something thrilled at the chase, yes, but also the prospect of _winning_.

Jaime glances at the woman in question, takes in her too-broad shoulders and too-sullen face half covered in shadow. The sight hasn't improved since he last encountered her,  it's true, but there's something about her that calls to him just the same. She's still singular the same way she was at the start, it's simply distracting in a whole new way now.

Now Jaime ponders how Brienne of Tarth vexes him in a way he's never allowed before. He finds, to his surprise but also no surprise at all, his thoughts travel a path they've visited once before, just never in quite so much detail. Now he wonders how those too-swollen lips might taste against his own firmer, sturdier ones. Now he wonders how those broad shoulders might look above him, how those calloused hands might feel if they held his wrists in an iron grip.

Brienne is staring into the flames with a frown on her lips and a crease on her forehead and just like that Jaime is brought back to himself. Today has been the worst of days.

“Come now. That sulk does not become you.”

“I failed—”

He scoffs, impatient. “You failed no one. You failed nothing. That woman is not Catelyn Stark.”

His crass tone moves her to more silence, and Jaime berates himself. He wants to comfort, but he hasn’t much experience and his innate sense of rebellion at her innate sense of heroism has picked the worst of times to flare up again. He wants but he doesn’t know _how_ , and it would be amusing, usually, but right now it’s just pathetic. It’s not unlike his right hand, in that respect, and the irony is that Brienne is present for both circumstances is not lost on him.

Jaime sighs.

“I'm sorry,” he hears himself say.

She doesn't look up. “For what?”

“This.” He gestures a sweeping arc around the cave, the bodies, the darkness. “Her,” he adds as an afterthought.

“It's not—” she starts, then stops. Her voice takes on a surprised quality, the one she reserves for the worst insults hurled her way. “It's not your fault.”

Jaime laughs, bitter. “Most things are, wench. Or have you not figured that out by now?”

That gets her attention. Her head snaps up, blue eyes blazing.

“Unfairly, perhaps.”

The fierceness is back in her tone, that fire he can finally admit he admires. Jaime likes her best like this: alive and ferocious, staring at him as though she'll match him blow for blow, even when she lacks the clever wit to spar with the likes of him. It fascinates him, teases him in ways he doesn't fully understand. It's her spirit, he thinks, or maybe it's just _her_ : her manner, her fire, her vulnerability intertwined with her strength. He wants to keep this side of her all to himself, wants to bask in it for as long as she'll have him.

He doesn't deserve it, he knows.

“It's not yours, either. You know that, don't you?”

She looks away, eyes fixed on the flames. “Jaime—”

“After Aerys, I didn't... ” Gods, he doesn't know how to talk about this. He rearranges himself beside her on the ground, stupidly nervous despite the fact that she knows. “I only ever kept one oath. To keep the king's secrets.”

He doesn't even know what the hell he's saying. But he's started now, so he may as well see it through. He's nothing if not a coward, as fate so often reminds him.

“Everyone all but yelled in my face I'd kept the wrong one. The irony of it all...” He chuckles, a wry sound.

“I kept it because I didn't have anything else to keep. Because no one would have believed me anyway, and there was a certain...pride, I suppose, in keeping this one vow just to spite the lot of them.”

He stares into the flames, lets the silence ride out. Lets the embers take him back to a very different kind of fire, the kind that still haunts his dreams.

“I was miserable.”

He's never actually said the words aloud, never put thought to the words because he _couldn't,_ not when his guard was up at all times. When his pride was so wounded he didn't know where Jaime ended and the Kingslayer began. It all became one giant blur, a stain too obvious to ignore yet impossible to wash out.

“I couldn't—” he swallows past the emotion catching in his throat. “I didn't think it would ever change. I still had Cersei, and I still had the Kingsguard. I still had children and a city to serve even if it was arbitrary by that point. It had been arbitrary for a long time, before that. Can you believe I once thought it would be heralded as my greatest accomplishment? Until the moment Ned Stark found me in that throne room I _actually_ _believed_ I would be worshipped as a hero.”

He laughs again, the bitterness rising higher and higher making his tone droll. He chances a glance at Brienne and finds her looking back with that same goddamn mixture of emotions he can't interpret and it grates on his nerves. Hope and despair. North and south. Kings and wenches and old truths. This is what Jaime Lannister is. All of these, and nothing at all. Forever and always a paradox.

“Jaime,” she tries again, but he’s not ready for her words. Not yet.

“I won’t let it happen again.”

The words leave his mouth and an entirely different kind of silence takes its place. A pause, an intake of breath, a rush of unspoken nerves. Nothing is different but everything is changed, tilted just so, a question. The weight of it takes him right back to the baths, to another time when secrets loosed Jaime’s lips, a time when he wasn’t awake enough to dissect her expression. Now he takes his time, now he basks in it: her wide eyes, her sharp breath, her disbelief etched in a single line upon her forehead. Surprise is the most notable, written plain across her features, a stupefied expression as though he’s struck her and Jaime despises its existence, despises that she should ever have reason to doubt his conviction. He understands it, he knows it well, but fifteen years too late Jaime wishes he could abolish it once and for all.

Maybe that’s what makes his tongue loose, maybe that’s what makes him add, a touch softer:

“Not to you.”

There’s a moment there, not unlike earlier, where Brienne appears caught, trapped between one snare and the next. Except there’s no trap save the one of Jaime’s own emotion, and there’s no snare save the one between lips. Still, Jaime imagines his own surprise is not so dissimilar to hers, though perhaps more aware of the tension caught and held, suspended between his body and hers. It’s not a moment he wishes to break, but not one he wishes to steal, either; she deserves more than his past, more than the lot she’s been dealt from oathbreakers and oaths. More than Lannisters and Starks and ancient rituals bringing the dead back to life.

It’s a bit of irony, perhaps, that here their roles are almost entirely reversed: that where she sits broken in  spirit Jaime Lannister stands resolute to convince her otherwise. Where once she hid her exposure from him, now he wishes the exact opposite. Where once she ran, now she stays. Confused, yes, but still _present_ and, Jaime finds, it makes all the difference.

Though he doesn’t know what he expects, either. Comfort? Sympathy? Jaime Lannister is not the sort of man who craves these things, or at least, not the way most men do. The truth of the matter is, Jaime Lannister has never known the definition of normal his entire life, and perhaps that became his greatness weakness as well as his greatest strength. He craves clemency, but detests sympathy; he craves absolution, but detests  pity. There is no perfect response, yet he waits with baited breath to hear what Brienne of Tarth will make of him once again. He is at her mercy for the second time in his life, though perhaps it could be said she is the only person who could hold such power over him. Her, because she would never ask. Her, because he—

—Jaime never gets to finish the thought, never gets to berate himself for such a silly, insolent _almost_ because her mouth is on his, a rush of air then a rush _Brienne_ , of breath tangled in a whirlwind of shock and nerves and sheer, utter chaos.

Jaime never finishes the thought and he doesn’t finish any thought thereafter either, his psyche becoming a home to incoherent surprise and stone cold silence. He was expecting cliché, knightly vows, not cold, swollen lips. He was expecting too-sincere recompense, not physical, feminine comfort.

It’s cold, that is Jaime's first coherent thought. The outline of her mouth is bitterly cold, colder than his, as it presses and holds as though in greeting, or perhaps invitation. The frigid temperature makes the entire affair somewhat anticlimactic, Jaime supposes, but only because his face is half numb and he’d prefer to feel every inch of her for such an occasion. As far as replies go, however, Jaime confesses this may be his favorite yet. For Brienne to be so bold and courageous in the face of her own insecurity, to catch the Kingslayer off his feet in more ways than one is—enticing.

And there’s more than one way to combat the snow.

There’s a moment where Brienne pulls away, a look in her eye like she’s surprised at her own ambition. It’s not a new look, he’s seen her bravery up close many times over, but the newfound doubt that creeps into her expression has no business being there, Jaime thinks. He wants to erase that uncertainty from her person once and for all, and Jaime leans into her with the intention of doing just that. If there’s any consolation he can provide, he can grant her this. His affection, like her amnesty, is freely given.

Jaime cups her cheek, gentle, because for all of Brienne’s scars, she’s delicate underneath. He takes his time, purposeful, because it was never afforded to him. He waits, patient, because Brienne deserves to be valued and appreciated, treasured and loved.

It makes him foolish. It makes him weak. It makes him whisper, in a moment of rare honesty, “You’re beautiful.”

Brienne sways closer again, confidence building as she rests a hand on his shoulder, curving up toward his neck. The blush running along her neck warms her lips at last and there’s the spark he’s been searching for, there’s the fire he’d been hoping to see. It’s not so different from a dream he had so long ago, except it’s better now because it’s _real_.

Brienne kisses him and there’s a moment where he thinks of Cersei. It would be nearly impossible to not, given how much of his life he’s spent devoted to her beck and call. There’s a moment where past and present clash, a jarring movement, before they reconcile themselves into two neat chapters, one ending, one beginning. There’s a moment he thinks of his sister in a cell, her request left unanswered, and the next he thinks of Brienne brandishing a lie, then his sword.

And maybe it’s that thought, more than any other, that makes him reflective. The older Jaime becomes the more he sees his sister was never his mirror after all. He wouldn’t have guessed it upon his first meeting with the Maid of Tarth, or the second or even the third, but now it’s clearer to him than anything, past and present combined:

Brienne is and always will be his other half.

Where once the revelation might have vexed him, now he finds its truth compelling, honest. Raw, but comforting. The world makes more sense by sunset than it did at sunrise, though in truth nothing has changed but the view of the horizon. But, Jaime finds, it’s a welcome change.

More than that, it’s good.

If he were a believing sort of man, Jaime would think every path was leading him here, to this moment. If he were a changed man, he would think destiny had his fate in mind after all. But Jaime is neither of these things and both at the same time, so instead he simply thinks how much he’s needed this, far more than he could ever express in words. He’s always felt most alive fighting or fucking and this is neither and both at the same time, too: Brienne kisses him again firmly, and all Jaime can think with certainty is he would pick this, choose this, every time and every way.

The best part is, he can.

 

* * *

  

The thing is, Jaime Lannister never thought he would actually venture north.

He visited once, before the Starks were enemies and he had a stump for a hand. He remembers the cold winds, the crisp snowflakes, remembers the wooden houses and the warm fires. He remembers the northerners with their heavy cloaks and heavy faces.

He remembers Ned Stark.

It feels like an age ago, when so much has changed. There have been wars and treaties and betrayals and death; there has been good and bad and everything in between. Part of Jaime wishes he could still say King’s Landing was his home, wishes he could declare his love for Cersei the way he once did in Winterfell. He wishes he could but he _can’t_ , he simply cannot lie to himself any longer. With the capitol in ruins and his children in crypts, with his sister sounding more familiar than ever, but not to the woman he once loved, there’s simply no place left to hide, or lie, or deceive.

Cersei beckons, but he does not listen. The army calls, but he does not answer.

He ignores them all and focuses his eye north, instead. He looks to one who never asked anything of him, but one who hearkens for him just the same.

And it's strange, but for the first time Jaime can remember, the thought of moving forward doesn’t sound so difficult. The past doesn’t have the same hold that it once did, thanks in no small part to a certain blonde beast of a woman he's on his way to pestering into annoyance.

It's a dangerous idea, borderline ludicrous, but part of him feels elated just the same. A part of him can't help but feel the silly, fifteen year old excitement at the thought of an actual, real adventure  with the only person in Westeros he admires, maybe even loves.

It’s dangerous and it’s terrifying, but it’s also invigorating and sweet. Soon King’s Landing will be but a memory, and Winterfell, well. It may never be home, but Jaime has never much cared for lands or titles. His home has never been a place but a person, and now he’s more sure than ever he’s found his missing piece.

Jaime mounts his house, packs enough for two, then slips away at nightfall. The road is lonely and cold, but memories of Brienne is more than enough to distract the chill from his fingertips and the frost from his heart. And when he arrives, when those large wooden gates open wide, Jaime takes in the sad state of affairs in front of him before grinning a sharp, precise smile when Brienne appears, her blue eyes comically wide.

She doesn’t smack her head on the doorway, but it’s a near thing. 

The future, Jaime thinks, is bright.

* * *

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. I'm [tatooinelukes](http://tatooinelukes.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
